The clouds are forming from the north;
And as draperies drawn about a window,
So are they, bringing with them the darkness
and a cutting wind
Which rips at the rigging of White Wine
secured in her berth,
tucked behind the breakwater.
The evening out over the coast
In its coming usually is accompanied
But this night only courts the frustrated fury
of the hammering surf
gutting the beaches.
But even the varied pilings strewn in the surf
Remain as testimonials that the waters
may for a brief moment
Breach their mark, only to find their grip short;
And having exhausted their strength,
they are resigned to withdraw.
To the east, the clouds are as dirty mats being beat out.
While to the south, there is a faint orange hue...
And at the steps at the bayou,
Thoughts I ponder, only to give them up
to the tide in flight
And the curling wavelets entrancing my eyes;
And comes an understanding of the homes alight
Mirrored on the rippled bayou:
an image, an image so untrue.
Withdrawing myself from this sight,
The path I have often tread,
Walk once more I do.
And the water sliding along the seawall
Reminds me of words spoken last night...